Thursday, 28 July 2016

Able is Alive and Well a.k.a. Cain is Dead and Will Die Again when Able Rose


Cain Murdering his Brother Able.

The following poem was written the day following the murder of eighty-four individuals, intentionally mowed down by a man in a vehicle, during the Bastille Day celebrations in France (15th July, 2016). Yet the poem is also written in light of various killings that have taken place, and still are, throughout the world – be it through terrorism, war, revolts or the murders that take place every day.

Although there is such literal bloodshed caused by literal murder, this is simply the foul expression of the evil of that murder that takes place within the heart, which always precedes its literal enaction. This is the hidden violence which underpins the violence we see outside in the world. A violence which we must come to recognise as existing within ourselves. This is the corner stone of humility - to accept the truth of our capacity for violence - for sin. We don't loose self-esteem by such thinking, but we realign our self-esteem by finding it in the sinless Christ, in our true-selves in the New Able, and not in ourselves, in our false-selves - which is our Cain.  To be angry at one’s brother or sister, to hold onto a grudge, to judge our neighbour and to slander them through gossip; to abuse another, even 'just' by means of demeaning words; all of these sins that take place within the heart, and often manifest through our spoken words, are violent acts which in a spiritual sense kill our brother and sister – from within ourselves, as we kill the love we should have for them from inside of us; and perhaps we kill their good name, or a certain innocence through scandal – and hence these sins make us guilty of a kind of murder in its varying degrees.

This is simply a result of concupiscence, of that evil inclination, which belongs to our fallen nature – to that part of us which is broken. sinful and tarnished. This part of us, is not really a part of us, but a privation of who we really are, and it is aptly called our false-self, our old man – allegorically represented as our Cain. Who we really are, is who we were created to be, and who we are as we exist in Christ: perfect masterworks and vessels of light – that part of us which has been redeemed, a part which is not really a part at all, but our whole selves which is hidden in Christ and reveals itself by fragments here in this life through faith. This we call our true selves, our young man, and is allegorically represented as our Able.

In this understanding, because of the Passion of Christ, our false-self, our Cain is dead, and yet we must still put up with this 'walking dead man' until the day we die. On the other hand, because of the Resurrection of Christ, our true-self, our perfected and sanctified self - our Able - is alive and well. And yet through the pilgrim journey of sanctification, in which the soul is spiritually reborn again and again in grace, and culminating in the beatific vision – heaven; our Cain will die again when our Able rises, both in little ways through faith in this life, and finally in a sense when we arrive in heaven, and ultimately on that Last Day when our bodies will be resurrected from the dead. The language Cain… will die again when Able rose  – with “will” in the future tense but “rose” in the past tense, used because the mystery of our salvation and sanctification, and the resurrection of our bodies, has already taken place in eternity in Christ (Heb 10:10), and yet it is still to occur in time through means of our cooperation in faith, hope and love. Thus Able is Alive and Well a.k.a. Cain is Dead and Will Die Again when Able Rose

*** 


The blood in torrents flows from the wound that’s never closed
Ever since poor Able met the grave.
Since in every age Cain has held his stone,
Repeating on every lip, ancient refrain:
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Would that this river could be dammed,
That the tears of every eye could be wiped away –
Yet Cain keeps stealing so many lives,
Keeps wetting so many knifes,
That it seems it’ll always be this way.

But the mortal sickle can only reap the stalk;
The root eludes the final cut: hence plant endures;
And it grows again tall, given Ezekiel-temple-waterfall,
Because the firstborn grain did fall in soil and straw
As lifeless Able met the floor;
Yet this one rose.

So how then is it that no one knows?
Well that’s another thing; but nothing takes away
The fact that the body is an ocean, and mortal life its pearl,
A pearl the Canaanite pigs trample in the mud –
Yet destined for the cliff, the spit, the pit that ever glows.
So what then? Do we hunt the Calydonian boar?[i]
No, not at all; for pluck the weed and wheat is gone.
Besides, it’s suicide, for Eurytion[ii] is the self
And Eurytion is the boar.

Although it’s true, we already killed Eurytion long ago,
Even whilst Cain did ope’ that wound,
And so as Cains, victims of inner pains,
We cannot blame, but only like Peleus[iii] can we run
To where the cascade fountain streams –
Absolving spring where old men are turned young –
That lofty place, where Carmel’s peak descends,
Besides dear maiden who leads return to Eden
Where fruits abloom, through wound turned womb
That like a stalk doth carry first the pearl within the pearl,
With next in line the pearl that in the mud
In meantime lays –

As egg one day to hatch,
There from nest of Able’s skull that rests where Adam fell.


[i] Calydonian boar: “is one of the monsters of Greek mythology that had to be overcome by heroes of the Olympian age. Sent by Artemis to ravage the region of Calydon in Aetolia because its king failed to honour her in his rites to the gods, it was killed in the Calydonian Hunt, in which many male heroes took part, but also a powerful woman, Atalanta, who won its hide by first wounding it with an arrow.” (Wikipedia).

[ii] Eurytion: was accidentally killed by Peleus during the hunt for the Calydonian boar.

[iii] Peleus: accidentally killed Eurytion with a javelin, and was purified of this murder by Acastus, king of Iolcus.

Sunday, 24 July 2016

Elijah of Cyrene Shall Restore the Orphans to their Father

 
The Prophet Elijah Awakened by an Angel in the Desert, Giovanni Lanfranco (1582–1647)


"He will restore the hearts of the fathers to their children and the hearts of the children to their fathers" (Mal 4:6)



One by one they fall, like leaves in the sun,
Like some J.F.K, bowling pins:
Victims of post-modern genocide;
Snowball effect from first step – dehumanise:
Suffocated by comfort, drowned by consumer tide,
Gassed by utopian emissions, accolade OD –
A standard of dying not living, of death not life.
And so it’s no wonder Hecate’s glad (foul grim reaper’s wife).
She wears her trophies, shrunken heads, upon a belt on waist,
Others kept in pickled jars above her kitchen sink,
Jim, Kurt, Janis and Jimmy – they all hang there;
Gleaned by S.S. with Daria attitude, kill with “I don’t care’s.”

Mass graves the nations are, blame the Bolshevik radiation –
Down with Antoinette and Tsar!
Then comes Stalin, as “Au Revoir” says Hiroshima.
Entertainment, who would believe is the disease that spread –
The cause of this walking dead – who old man boredom didn’t kill
Since entertainment did instead. But still
Their conscious minds blink and flick, and Chinese factory
Fingers still tick like seconds of a hand – feet
Grinding Egyptian sand as dainty Cleopatras – rich and dolled with milken skin –
They carry to golden mine, doomed to cave in. But litter
Bears too much, some fall on Calvary’s way –
Never too late for the Cyrenian to enter stage right.
But S.S. militants have built a Berlin Wall;
Built with bones of abortions and old folks left to rot –
A wall none can scale, since no one can climb
The barriers they’ve built inside,
Only the might of Adonai through Joshua and ark
Can Jericho-Berlin wall make fall –
With Rahabs cleansed of every fault (O those Magdelenes!)
The Cyrenian who draws the dead from rubble
Like Christ, Peter from sea; who must endure henceforth
Ninevehnian shame which Jonah bore beneath the tree.

And no one can say “I never saluted the Führer,”
For that anti-Christ has nestled as welcomed guest in every
Cold recess in every heart – in every Berghof den.
So should we turn to Lenin’s ‘friend’?
Well, did the red flag man pierce the temple of this Sisera?
No, not at all, ‘twas Jael who used the nail of the carpenter’s son,
And there are two more where that came from.
They’ll be found where the lepers play, away from chattering coins,
For the blue collar deity was made redundant by the big boys,
The AL Capone’s of Berlin Wall (Street) – those wolfs of Jericho –
For this little lamb they sought for meat not wool.
Them generals of the fight spew their soldiers from Long Knife’s Night;
All subterfuge, formal and slick, plastered with Orwellian silicon smiles
On Guy Fawkes masks – such hypocrisy when “forever after’s”
They’ve denied, and decried, and stolen from every child.

But all of this is contemporary etiquette – for the pacifist dreamer
To stand by as women and children bleed –
Whilst upon organic diet (better than the pleb) like vampires they feed.
Hence social devotion spreads to these pseudo modern saints,
Who shower birth control instead of bread;
Cry about whales and fight the phantoms in their head –
All the while planning how to make someone else’s foetus dead.
O sincere fascist soldier atheism’s dead!
Just listen and you will hear, cries no man can answer:
Seven billion lonely voices crying like children in the night –
It’s all mere vanity, adult talk; political blah –
All they need is the love of their heavenly Father.
But O Cyrinian – Magdalene-Rahabs: incarnate Elijahs –
When will you let the mighty hand sack your Troy?
For then, only then, shall bias against all carpenters’ fathers
Be smashed to smithereens,
Whence floods that thirsty need – a father’s tenderness –
Shall rein and rain with Noahide rainbow drawn by true Apollo,
Piercing more liberally than cupid, the doves
Who moan like the geese did in Rome when Aryan Galls sought in.

Ah! It’s fairy tales (sweet supernal facts not lowly myths),
That these assassin death squads need – a saving remedy to materialistic-behaviourism,
To Epicuren greed, Dionysian lust, to all that’s sour and serious, that murders man’s creative soul into dust;
Since from relativistic gulag only bedtime story, read by Father high,
Can angelic fairies these walking dead set free – to ascend the iron curtain:
By means of Cyrinians – those citizens of utopia real;
Who pave the way from Calvary to Sunday morn,
Whereon the market’s closed; since on the sandy shore
Awaits the carpenter – the child of childs – with all the soul of man doth need:
A freshly baked fish on coals, with bread and wine to sip,
While story from above – he bleeds – in Father’s voice he reads.